


I just don't trust the sun to rise (when I can't see your eyes)

by rosierey



Series: Open Your Fist Just Enough (For a Hand) [2]
Category: True Detective
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, Old Men Having Feelings and Sex, Porn With Plot, Post-Season/Series Finale, body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24393721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosierey/pseuds/rosierey
Relationships: Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Martin "Marty" Hart
Series: Open Your Fist Just Enough (For a Hand) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761442
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

The night sky seems to move like a living, breathing beast overhead. It's just clouds trailing over the stars but it feels like the darkness is following them, like Marty could drive for miles and it'd chase them all the way to the ends of the Earth. He had been afraid of the dark as a child, perhaps it lingers from then. Even on nights where he would wake feeling lost in the dark, comfort came from knowing the light would come. Perhaps this is a new fear, born of Carcosa's dark walls closing in as unconsciousness took over, holding his best friend's open guts closed until he couldn't anymore. Waking up almost certain the doctor's would tell him he is dead and pleading with them to let him see the body.

The dark eats up the path they leave and claws at the headlights guiding their way. Marty looks over at Rust, slumped against the open window. His arm dangles halfway out of the car, cigarette smoldering between two fingers. He wants to grab Rust's arm and yank him back into the cab, wind the window shut and seal him in, protect him from the dark. That's why it's here now, to take Rust away from him but they can't have him.

"They ain't gonna get you," Marty mumbles to himself then looks at the sky, bubbling and churning angrily. "Ya hear me? Ya can't have him!"

He doesn't know how Rust can sleep with the wind whipping through the cab, his patient gown billowing open to his navel and off of one shoulder. The bandages covering his waist draw Marty's eyes, concern twisting up in his chest where his own scar heals. What if he's dead already? Peacefully slipped away without Marty realising.

"Rust?" He calls, voice high with fear. He's not watching the room anymore, starting instead at the porcelain pallor of Rust's lolling head. He's never been pale, even at his most sick looking when he'd been more Crash than Cohle he'd shone like simmering oil almost otherworldly with all those drug coursing through him. Fresh from Texas he has that leather tan even more Cowboy than Marty, nothing less than golden. Southern sunlight always touched him no matter how far into darkness he sank. Now he looks like a horrible shade of himself.

"Hey, Rust? Please," he whines, reaching out and shaking Rust. His body lolls side to side like a puppet with no strings and Marty wants to scream. "Please, wake up, please-"

"Marty, wake up."

He jerks. The cold, frightening night is replaced with the stifling warmth of a room with no air-con. Not no air-con, a broken one he's been meaning to fix since he moved in. A warm pale touches his cheek and he jumps, looking up at Rust's shadowy form leaning over him. The sweat has soaked through his t-shirt and makes him stick to the sheet as he sits up on his elbows and reaches from the lamp.

Light, precious, yellow light pours over them at the click of the switch. Rust squints a little as it floods the room and Marty takes him in, soaking up the sight of him all real and alive. His long brittle hair is a nest, tucked behind his ears, which Marty would say are the only goofy thing about him. The borrowed t-shirt hangs off one shoulder, much too big on his thin frame. They've been here from two weeks and no matter how much he feeds him the man stays lean as a starved man. Or maybe it's just how he drowns in Marty's hand-me-downs. He realises Rust is still touching him, hand fluttering between his upper-arm, shoulder and neck.

"'M sorry," Marty mumbles, wiping the sweat off his brow.

"You were callin' out, louder'n usual," Rust says in that soft voice Marty can't stand but loves when it comes out; after nightmares, in the morning before he's had coffee, just before or after he has a nap on the couch when dinner's finished with his feet in Marty's lap.

"Yeah, urm, was a little more intense than usual," he admits, shivering at the sweat cooling on his skin and the memory. "Sorry I woke you. I'm okay."

Rust shrugs, looking away. "I was up anyway."

Marty struggles into sitting up, leans against the headboard and looks at Rust more observantly. The bags he's always carried under his eyes are a little heavier at the moment, drooping down his hollow cheekbones. "You alright? The scars achin' again?" Only at times like these does Rust let him fuss about his recovery without protest, in the light of day he has more of a hard-shell, though not as much as Marty remembers. Maybe the years have softened him, or exhausted him.

"I dream too, now," Rust admits quietly. His hand has settled on the blanket between them, curled into the sheets just a few inches from Marty's and it makes his fingers itch to reach out. "More like memories, but they ain't all mine. Sometimes I think... I brought something back with me from the dark. I haven't slept much since the hospital they had me on so much shit all my other senses were dull now they're all... awake."

"You could take-"

"Naw." They've had that conversation plenty of times now, Rust doesn't like the pain medication because it makes him loopy and Marty doesn't like him not taking it because he hates seeing Rust in pain (and can only tolerate his abysmal mood when he's hurting for so long). On days when it's really bad he'll accept an ibuprofen and let Marty pet his side until he trembles himself to sleep.

Marty rubs the back of his neck. "Think my mind is still wired to sleep nexta someone. Even when I fell asleep on the couch, Maggie an' the girls where just a room away. Funny how some things stick and other stuff just falls away, easy."

They're quiet for a moment, lingering in the sober reality of their present, then Rust shifts and pats the outside of Marty's knee. "Shift on up."

"Huh?"

"G'on, I'm stayin' here tonight. The mattress in the spare room is a piece a shit anyway." Marty grins, both of them knowing it's a lame justification for them to seek comfort from each other, old pretense's die hard. He scoots over to the side closest to the wall and Rust crawls under the covers, moving slowly with the skin still delicate where it's holding him together. He's seen both of the scars while changing the bandages, had to hide the visceral anger and panic that would echo through him every time. The bird is mangled by the scar on his arm, Frankenstein-ed where it was pulled and stitched together but Marty thinks it suits him.

He waits until Rust is settled, facing the door and curled in on himself, before moving to cautiously tuck in behind him. He hears Rust sigh but there's an air of fondness to it that makes Marty smile like a kid getting away with a little misbehavior. A hand reaches around and takes Marty's wrist, lifting his forearm up and over his ribs and closing the last inch between them. He sighs too, contently, and carefully presses his palm above where the scar begins, between Rust's hip and navel. He feels Rust tense and then relax against him and remembers the last time he'd felt this, all that comfort and want wrapping them around each other.

Since absconding from the hospital Rust has slept in Marty's old clothes, a big baggy t-shirt and boxers. Not that Marty has had any opportunity to observe his nighttime habits, once Rust's door closes it's entirely left to his imagination which is pretty dangerous. He has a sense-memory of Rust's bare skin and the smell of stale beer in the flat above the bar, asking Rust if he slept naked, the man had had no shame in saying yes. Now he drapes himself in baggy threadbares and Marty can't tell if it's a quiet signal that what happened then isn't gonna happen again or something else.

Marty has the perfect image of his body in his mind, long limbs and tanned skin, it tortures him daily. Worst still, when he wakes up before Rust- when he's stayed the whole night through and Marty hasn't stirred once- he can feel him and momentarily forgets Carcosa, the complications. Yet the reminder always comes when he contently runs his hand over Rust's belly and encounters the ridge of scar tissue over the borrowed t-shirt. If Rust doesn't stir he'll indulge himself for a second or two; run the tips of his fingers along the fault line and morbidly recall how close he came to losing him. The thoughts make him press closer and place his palm over Rust's steady heartbeat, makes him hide his face in Rust's straw hair that smells like his shampoo.

Inevitably, Rust will stir and stretch, foot running down Marty's calf where it had hooked in his sleep before pulling it away. Marty will mumble 'good morning' pretend he's still mostly asleep and Rust will carefully free himself from his embrace, pull the covers back up over Marty to let him sleep a little longer while he makes coffee. He never actually sleeps, he just waits until the last of Rust's body-heat drains from the space beside him.

Marty is a restless sleeper, Maggie hated it, even in his sleep he'd wriggle and kick and wake himself up. It's how he became so well acquainted with the lazy-boy in the living room. The things that would knock him out where booze, good sex and freshly solved case (which usually meant the other two would occur in celebration). These days- or the days before Rust- he relied on booze and working until he passed out on his paperwork.

Now though, on nights Rust indulges him (or feels bad for him or whatever it is) and stays with him he sleeps like a rock. Even Rust seems to sleep better, sometimes waking up after Marty when usually Marty will come out and find Rust on the balcony on his third cigarette of the day.

This morning Marty wakes up, groggy around the edges from a disturbed sleep and disjointed dreams. The nightmare lingers on his peripheral and he reaches out but his knuckles collide with something solid. He opens his eyes a little and blinks at the wall he's facing, having rolled over in the night apparently. He's about to turn over when he realises Rust had also moved in the night and his arm his around Marty's waist. What also becomes apparent is Rust has a hard-on pressed up against his ass. Oh.

Marty's heart rate instantly rackets up and where he'd been sporting a halfhearted morning wood he's instantly painfully hard. He bites his lip and tries not to move, pressing his face into his pillow. He doesn't know what to do, how to act. They slept together but that was before... well, before. Rust hasn't shown a single inclination toward a repeat performance, he barely touches Marty unless it's in the dark. Now though, in the bright morning light, he's a long hot line against Marty's spine and Marty's having trouble keeping quiet.

He breaks when Rust shifts, cock dragging against his crack and making him whimper pathetically. "Rust, hey, Rust," he croaks in a panic, placing his hand on the man's thigh but it's a mistake because he lands on bare skin where Rust's shorts have ridden up, all warm and speckled with hair. He knows the moment Rust wakes up because he freezes instantly and his breath catches, hand curling in Marty's t-shirt. For a moment they're both frozen clutching each other then Rust melts, hips tilting forward cautiously.

"Rust- Christ," Marty moans, feeling warm lips on the back of his neck. Rust thrusts more confidently, hand not trapped between them dragging down to cup Marty through his shorts making him wheeze. He digs his fingers into the back of Rust's thigh, forcing him closer so there's not a hair's breadth between them.

"Marty," Rust pants and his thigh slots between Marty's as he slips his hand under his waistband. They rock together, a hazy mixture of sleepy and urgent, Rust sliding his palm over Marty with each roll of his hips. It's so much, but not enough.

"I, ah-" Marty shoves at his underwear and Rust pulls away enough to do the same then reappears, fingers curling over his aching chock and his own catching between Marty's bare cheeks. They both moan and Marty has to brace himself against the wall with his hand against the force of their grinding. He doesn't last long. All it takes for Marty is looking down at Rust's forearm flexing and the red, wet head of his cock sliding between his fingers. He moans, spilling over Rust's hand and hears his muffled curse against his shoulder.

When he's spent, Rust come covered hand slaps onto the wall over Marty's and he frantically thrusts against his ass. Their hand slide messily until Rust laces their fingers together with a nasty squelching noise. Marty remembers how good Rust had looked last time, the way he'd arced and shuddering. He's desperate to see it again and turns his head, catching Rust's mouth in a sloppy kiss.

"Baby," he gasps against his mouth, lips catching. "C'mon." If he weren't nose to nose with him, Marty wouldn't have heard the exquisite whimper Rust makes as he comes against the small of Marty's back.

They gasp together, hot puffs of air warming Marty's already overheated cheek. He unlocks his elbow and their hands slide off the wall, still tangled and grossly sticky. Each rise of Rust's belly as he catches his breath touches Marty's sweaty, grimy back and he never thought that'd feel so good. He opens his eyes he hadn't realised he'd closed and looks at Rust again. There's an intense look on his sleepy-eyed face that Marty can't take his eyes off of as he smiles just a little.

"I wasn't sure if you'd-" Marty starts but Rust cuts him off with a kissing, shockingly gentle. Marty hums into it, turning his hand so their fingers lace together palm to palm, oddly reassured by it and Rust's weight against his back. When Rust pulls away his eyelids take a moment to part before looking at Marty again. "Still not sure about the 'stache, though." Marty mumbles, twitching his lip and the tickle left behind.

Rust huffs, an approximation of a laugh. "Not into the trailer park Jesus look?"

"Honestly? On you?" Marty brushes his nose against Rust's. "Think just about anything looks good."

"You gone soft, Hart?" Rust murmurs but lets Marty indulge in his post-orgasmic tenderness, even seems to like the soft kiss on his cheek.

"That a problem?"

"Nah, think I might even like it."

The soft click of their kisses fill the space, warm and slow, better than Marty had imagined. Rust is always a little softer in the mornings but right now he's like melted butter, sighing every time Marty stops him from moving away with another kiss. They only get out of bed when Marty's phone starts buzzing. The theme song to Hawaii Five-0 blares from the nightstand and Marty reluctantly sits up and leans over Rust to look at the caller ID. It's Fran from the office and he knows he's probably missed an appointment or two by now.

"I gotta go in, Fran's gonna have my head," Marty grumbles, letting Rust's hand go as the man gets up and out of bed. Rust hums, pulling his shorts back on much to Marty's disappointment. "You wanna make me even later and join me in the shower?"

Rust gives him a look, exasperation watered-down by the fondness there, his hand flutters over his stomach and Marty suddenly feels guilty. 'Strenuous activity' was still off the menu according to the doctor, Rust should technically be on bed-rest and even though he moves with a lot more ease than he had a week ago, he still hunches over his scar. The one on his forearm is was shallower so its bare most of the time, a violently pink rift through the bird tattoo but a symbol of Rust's survival, his healing. To Marty, anyway.

"Didn't pull anything?" Marty asks sheepishly, eyeing his torso unhappily.

"Nah, always a little stiff in the mornin'," Rust answers, eyes drooping over Marty significantly, making him grin. "Go'n, go shower, I'll make you somethin' for the road."

Marty keeps smiling to himself as Rust walks away, feeling the lightest he's felt in weeks. He showers quickly, washing off the evidence, grimacing a little as he scrubs the mess of his back. There's a nice smell wafting from the kitchen when he gets out and finds a suit to wear, choosing carefully, knowing from now on it'll remind him of this morning every time he wears it.

When he comes through Rust is wearing jeans for the first time since leaving the hospital and a different shirt, hair tied back. Marty takes the wrapped up grilled-cheese and travel mug of coffee left on the counter, sipping it gratefully. "Mm, thanks. You goin' somewhere?" The clothes are baggy since they're also borrowed from the back of Marty's closet, but he still manages to look good in them.

"Got some things to do, gotta spare key?" Rust asks, leaning against the sink with his own coffee, in a mug.

"Uh-huh." Marty fishes through the draw of miscellaneous crap nearby and tosses the spare set to Rust who catches them smoothly. He picks up his own set from the dish across the counter, finally sensing the wrath of Fran hanging over him for lingering so long. "I'll be back 'round five, want me to pick up dinner?"

"I'll make something. Hey, Marty?" Rust reaches across the counter between the kitchen and living room, snagging Marty's tie and tugging on it until Marty leans over. He kisses him, tongue slipping in for just a moment before he pulls away. It's Marty's turn to linger and hum with his eyes closed, basking in the thrilling domesticity Rust is displaying which he knows will probably never happen again. But today is special. When he opens his eyes Rust has half a smile on his face.

Marty darts another chaste kiss on his bottom lip. "A guy could get used to that."

"A guy is later for work, get gone." Marty leaves the flat laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the kudos and comments it makes me smile so much, hope everyone is doin' okay! Enjoy!
> 
> also realised how much rust's feet are mentioned in this chapter NO KINK OKAY, don't tarnish this

Fran is absolutely furious in that silent, stern way of hers but it lessens when she sees how cheerful Marty is. His big sheepish smile that retains some of boyish charm of his youth and a gift of fresh coffee and doughnuts makes her purse her lips knowingly before she accepts his offerings as graceful as ever. Walking into the back office gives him a brand new rush of exhilaration. He had had it the first day back after Carcosa, staring at the wall where it'd happened- where he and Rust had finally happened- the first time. He'd been frozen in the doorway with blushing furiously for a full minute before Fran asked if he was having a stroke.

He's distracted all day and whatever forgiveness he'd garnered from Fran disappears by two in the afternoon. Some work does get done, he assigns a couple of case to Malinowski and Stevenson who are both wary of his good mood (they accept the doughnuts anyway). The last of his own case files he closes and then picks through some more, lingering on ones Rust would probably find interesting. He wonders if it's too soon, he wants Rust to get better and he knows how the man can get when he's on a case; skipped meals, sleepless nights. He sets those aside and tucks them in their own files, leaving them in the top draw for a later date. Once Rust is ready he'll ask and try not to daydream about their surnames side by side on the wall.

Usually he's the last to leave- he gets more done when the office is empty and quiet so his mind has space to work through the details of a case without interruption, and it's better than going home to an empty place- but tonight he's watching the clock. When it ticks over to 4:30 he shoots out of his chair and grabs his briefcase.

"I'll lock up," Fran says without looking up from her computer when Marty comes into the reception area poised to grovel at her feet. He opens and closes his mouth as Fran turns her knowing gaze onto him, logically he knows she can't possibly have a clue there's a lanky, hairy, ex-detective with sonorous eyes waiting at home for him but he still blushes furiously.

"Thanks, Franny. I'll, urm, I'll be on time tomorrow-"

"Early."

"-Right, early. With coffee and doughnuts." Fran sniffs and nods emphatically, looking back at her computer to indicate they are done with this conversation. It makes Marty chuckle and he leaves with a skip in his step. It feels dangerous to feel this giddy so soon, they hadn't even discussed what happened or what's going to happen... As he drives home apprehension sets in once again, battling with the foolish hope inside him.

Did Rust just need that comfort and relief? Before Carcosa they'd both been lonely and expecting the worst of what was to come, Rust had expected to die and probably didn't anticipate having to deal with this. He'd just give Marty what he wanted, needed, at the time. To Rust sex might just be another inconvenient human flaw, one he'll indulge for the sake of his bodily needs. Marty can't do that, can't separate sex and emotion, it's why every afraid ended poorly.

At the red light he closes his eyes and breaths carefully. That can't be it. The way Rust touched him, held onto him, even kissed him goodbye. It has to mean more. God help him, he loves Rust Cohle and he wants him to love him back.

The sky is reds' and oranges' when he pulls up in front of the block of flats. Rust's truck is parked there too, and there's a lumpy tarp over the back which is new. Marty sits behind the wheel for a few minutes, almost afraid to go upstairs. Then he remembers who the hell he is and who is, hopefully, waiting for him up there. Even if Rust can't love him back Marty can still be there for him, as his friend, a better friend than he'd been. He exhales shakily and gets out of the car.

When he opens the front door the first thing he registers is music coming from deeper in the flat. He walks through the living-room, following Dusty Springfield's dulcet singing about breakfast in bed, and dumps his suitcase on the couch as he passed it. In the kitchen the extractor light is on illuminating a covered pot on the stove waiting to be heated. The rest of the lights are off, except Marty spots a bar of light beneath the bathroom door where the muffled music is coming from.

"Rust?" He call cautiously.

"Door's open."

Marty pushes it wide and steps inside, hit by a wave of humidity, immediately stunned by the scene in front of him. Rust lounges in the bathtub, left leg propped up and right elbow hanging over the side with a cigarette between two fingers. The tiny window above is cracked open but the room is still hazy, and Rust is flushed from the neck down to where his ribs disappears beneath the milky water. The shade of pink is darker on his tanned skin and the haze of moisture in the air practically makes him glow, Marty's never felt so unworthy.

He doesn't notice for a moment- there's so much to look at- but when he sees Rust's hair his breath catches and his eyes bug out. It's gone. Well that's overstating it, but the messy ponytail has been replaces with shorter curling ends that hang behind his ears. It's closer to his old 1995 hairdo but longer, a little wild, more him and shot through with graying blond waves. There's stubble artfully left on his jaw but his top lip is free from its hairy confides, Marty had almost forgotten the elegant droop of that sullen lip. He's sure he's stepped into some kind of fantasy or daydream, he looks... Christ, there aren't words. There's ash and something sweet in the air-

"Is that Oatmeal?" Marty asks incredulously, feeling a little weak at the knees .

"'S supposed to be soothing," Rust replies lazily, blinking at Marty like he's woken him from a doze. "Over did it today. Lady at the chemist said it'd be nice."

"Yu-huh, y-you've sure been busy."

"Just a haircut. Grabbed some shit from the bar." Rust tips his head to the side and smiles at Marty, just a small one- he's never seen Rust grin except in a picture once- but it's enough to make Marty's heart pound. He looks incredible. Marty swallows and glances at the open can of Lone Star near Rust's foot and the crowded ashtray by his shoulder. He's been here a while, indulging in something a frivolous as a soak. With all the grace of a middle-aged man Marty sits down on the floor, his shoulder against the bath-side facing Rust, and turns the radio on the toilet seat down.

"How many of them you had?" Marty asks, jerking his chin at the beer. Rust slants a knowing look at Marty as he takes a drag.

"Jus' a couple, needed to take the edge off."

"The pain-killers-"

"Marty," Rust warns. The water sloshes as he drops his leg back into it.

"Okay, man, okay-" He rubs his palms over his thighs, oddly nervous. "-Just don't think they're gonna do you much better."

"It's not like before," Rust says and he lifts his other leg out, poking his dripping toe against Marty's shoulder. Marty grabs his ankle, hungry for a point of contact between them, tempted to see if he's ticklish. Instead he runs his thumb against the protruding bone in circles. When Maggie had had a long day at the hospital she used to take a bath and Marty would give her a foot massage and listen to her vent, he wonders if Rust would like that. "I'm not tryin' to numb anything now, other than the ache my gut. Didn't realise how many books I've accumulated that's all."

"Your books, huh? You movin' in?" He smirks and Rust takes a long drag, looking at him steadily before dropping his gaze to the murky water. The easy air turns cold in less that a second and Rust drags his foot back into the bath. Trust Marty to ruin the moment with snark, he bites his lip and watches Rust avoid his gaze. He dips his fingers into the luke warm water, watching it ripple and carefully adds. "If that's so we're gonna need to go furniture shoppin'. Don't have enough shelves for that many sad-ass books-" Out of the corner of his eye he sees Rust's lip twitch. "-And they're goin' in the spare room- not the living room, not our room- nobody needs to be lookin' at that Nietzsche shit when they're tryna relax-"

With a splash Rust sits up, cups the back of Marty's neck and drags him into a kiss. It's smokey and boozy and Marty knows he's never gonna get tired of it. With a relieved sigh he sinks his fingers into Rust's damp hair, enjoying just how well his hand can get a grip on the curls. The bare upper lip is a brand new feeling and Marty runs his tongue over the bow before pulling away.

"I like this," he murmurs, smiling against Rust's soft mouth.

Rust reaches behind him and stubs out his cigarette. "Which part?"

"Comin' home to you, kissin' you." He punctuates it with another kiss to make the point clear, running his fingers through Rust's hair. "Like this too."

"Yeah?" Rust tips his head back into Marty's palm, looking like the cat who got the cream as Marty pets him. Marty sits up to kiss the long elegant line of his throat, free hand sinking into the warm water. He knows his shirt and blazer are ruined now but it's worth it to feel Rust shudder as he runs his fingers down the soft inner skin of his thigh and wraps his hand around his half-hard dick. With a quiet moan Rust's legs fall open, the angle is still awkward but Marty can't bring himself to care when Rust makes noises like that. There's a line of tension on Rust's brow and Marty realises sitting up like that must be hurting. "Hey, hey, baby, lay back now."

Marty gets up on his knees as Rust goes back pliantly, still holding onto Marty's collar. He leans over the side- tie meeting the same fate as his suit as it slips into the water- and keeps kissing Rust's neck as he strokes him under the surface. It churns and sloshes up his sleeve as he picks up speed, feeling Rust coil and moan in the most gorgeous way. He nips at Rust's skin hungrily, it's the most he's seen of Rust's body in ages and he wants to explore every inch of it he can get.

When Rust comes his knee jerks with a splash and he gasps hotly against Marty's temple. They breath together and Marty basks, knowing he'll never get enough of seeing Rust like that, all open with his walls down for just a little while.

"Like that too," Marty murmurs, running his hand up Rust's side and out of the water. Rust chuckles roughly and slumps back, looking at Marty like... Well. Marty grins cheekily back and ducks his head. The feeling's mutual, whatever it is.

"Think you'll like the stew waitin' in the kitchen too?" Rust drawls, teeth flashing in his next knowing smile.

Marty whistles, running a hand over his sweaty face. "Knew there was a reason I was keepin' you around." He chuckles and he stands, knees popping in protest. Rust's hand curls around the back of his knee and swiftly climbs up the inside of his leg, cupping his balls.

"Can't think of another reason?"

"Shit, Rust," Marty wheezes, eyelashes fluttering as Rust squeezes his quickly hardening dick. Just as his fingers find Marty's zipper, his stomach makes a loud gurgling noise that makes them both pause and snort. Rust let's go and slaps the outside of his thigh.

"Heat up the food, I'll be out before you can burn it."

"That's slander, my friend," Marty calls as he goes, leaving the door wide open.

Rust waves dismissively, a ghost of a smile still on his face. "Yeah, yeah."

Marty flips the kitchen light on and listens to the slosh of water as Rust gets out of the tub while he turns on the stove and stripes off the wet layers. The undershirt is a little damp too but he can't be asked to go change properly (and even though Rust had been teasing he doesn't want to leave the pot just in case). After a few minutes the quiet music stops and the bathroom creaks. Marty looks over his shoulder as Rust comes through, dressed in his own threadbare clothes for the first time and carrying the radio under his arm. His hair is still damp, darker at the ends that curl against his nape, Marty's never been so damn attracted to a neck in his life.

"How you get that thing working anyway?"

With a shrug Rust sets it on the counter and leans against it near Marty, eyeing his stirring like he has an opinion. "Nothin' wrong with it other than a coupla wires. Just wanted the noise, better'n bein' stuck in my own head."

The honestly of it surprises Marty but then again Rust has never hidden the way his mind works from him, it was always Marty making him shut up. The past doesn't bare thinking about but Marty finds his chest aches with regret all the same. He reaches out and wraps an arm around Rust's sim waist, pulling him against his hip to press a lingering kiss on his cheek."'S cool, baby, just impressed that's all. Forgot how handy you are."

Rust tilts his head and raises his eyebrows at Marty and it takes him a moment to realise what he said then he smiles. "No baby outside the bedroom, huh?" Marty murmurs, brushing his nose up that deadly, sharp cheekbone. Rust's fingers tighten against the small of his back.

"Jus' don't expect me to call you boo," Rust replies flatly and Marty barks a laugh. His darkening mood is blown away and replaced with a warmth that makes Marty smile, at this rate his going to pull a muscle. Everything that happened lead to right here, making dinner with Rust looking unfairly gorgeous, smelling like a spa at his side.

"Call me cupcake for all I care, if it's comin' from you I'll take it." Rust huffs and they stand together quietly for a moment, enjoying whatever glow it is they're feeling. He could always be so still, sitting at their desks or on a stakeout while Marty would fidget and grumble Rust could lean calmly against the window, smoking steadily. It had been frustrating like passing the time with a dead body in the passenger seat taking up space. Now the thought makes Marty hold him a little tighter, knowing exactly how Rust's near enough dead weight really feels.

"You're gonna burn it," Rust murmurs, sliding the spoon out of Marty's grip and bumping his hip to jostle him out of the way. "Go get bowls."

They eat in front of the television, watching some documentary on volcanoes that Rust seemed to take mild interest in when it came on. Marty's attention flickers between the show and Rust at the other end of the couch feeling strangely un-tethered after having his so close. After a while Rust puts his bowl on the coffee table, two thirds of the contents eaten which pleases Marty, getting the guy to finish an entire meal has been a maddening challenge so far. Marty takes it as a small victory any time he sees more than just a couple of mouthfuls gone.

There's a boom as a mountain explodes on screen, plumes of ash pouring into a blue sky. Marty watches it, briefly mesmerized. "Look at that, holy shit." Rust hums in agreement and shifts, leaning back against the arm of the couch and stretching his legs over the middle seat. His feet settle on Marty's thigh and the contact instantly quieting the noise in his head. Rust exhales noisily and laces his fingers together on his chest, half-lidded gaze on the television and Marty wonders if it does the same thing for him.

Cautiously, Marty sets his empty bowl beside Rust's and lifts the man's feet the rest of the way into his lap. He only meant to make Rust a little more comfortable, but something about the warm, rogue skin draws Marty's attention. Before he knows it, he's kneading the arch of Rust's right foot as the woman on screen recounts her experience of St. Helen erupting. The whole thing isn't as boring as he thought it'd be but Marty is instantly distracted when a soft noise comes from the other side of the couch. Rust's eyes are closed now, lashes fluttering as Marty's thumb digs in again and he makes another helpless sound that makes Marty's throat go dry.

Marty switches to the other foot and croaks, "okay?" Rust blinks at him sleepily, the word seems to take a moment to register before he nods slightly.

It keeps sneaking up on Marty, how similar yet different they both are to how he remembers them. So much has happened in the years between that twisted them both into sad, lonely men until their paths were forced together again. If Marty believed in fate he'd say this is that, or Rust probably knows some science-y psycho-babble-bullshit that'd explain it all away. Whatever it is doesn't matter to him, but Marty wishes he knew what happened to Rust when he fell of the face of the Earth. Or maybe he doesn't, maybe it'll break his heart. There's a novel of unsaid things between them and he's afraid to open it in case it all breaks apart under his indelicate touch.

He realises his hands have gone still and Rust is watching him, probably reading every bit of emotion on Marty's face. Without meeting his eyes he shifts Rust's foot a little and starts rubbing the path of the metatarsal's. A pale strip of skin catches his attention and he looks more closely at a narrow scar above Rust's ankle bone he had never caught sight of before.

"Where's this from?" He can't help asking, touching it with the tip of his finger.

"Gunshot."

Marty glances at him curiously. He remembers Rust showing him the three scars on his torso, staring at them with a mixture of trepidation and something hot in his gut (of course he hadn't understood that particular emotion until much later on)."Undercover?"

Rust hums a negative, watching Marty's fingers trace the mark. "My dad."

"You're dad took a shot at you?" Marty asks incredulously, a pang of protectiveness flaring in his chest.

"Snuck out. Came home in the middle of the night, he thought I was one of them strays always hangin' around."

"...He was gonna shot a dog?" Rust shrugs. "Mkay." He lost himself in thought, circling the scar and wondering just how weird Rust's childhood had been, hell his whole life.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Rust asks out of the blue, taking Marty by surprise. There's a openness on his face and Marty realises he's distracting him from whatever was on his mind. He smiles and shakes his head, when did Rust get to know him so well?

"Maggie used to complain about bein' on her feet all the time so I looked it up in some book she had," he explains fondly.

"You talk to her much?"

"Mm, nah, not so much. I mean, she tells me about the girls whenever somethin' comes up... For a while there she wouldn't even answer the phone so I-" Marty swallows uncomfortably. "-I appreciate it." The quiet after isn't exactly tense but there's a stillness to it like the both of them are waiting to see if the other will bring it up. Panic roils in his gut and Marty knows he's a coward but he knows they'll have to talk about it, talk for hours until they can't stand the sight of each other. He lifts Rust's foot and kisses the ankle scar. "You fed those stray dogs didn't you."

"Yeah."

Marty sighs and bows his head. "I don't deserve you." There's a pause then Rust's feet disappear and the cushions dip. The weight of him settles in Marty's lap and warm hands cup his jaw forcing him to look up and open his eyes to Rust's face.

"It ain't about deserve," Rust says firmly. "But if we're talkin' it those terms: we're a pair of fucked up old men, Marty, I think puttin' up with each other is exactly what we deserve."

Marty laughed wetly, touching Rust's harsh hipbones. "Christ, Rust, that might be the sweetest thing I've ever heard. You're- you're gorgeous, y'know that?"

With a blink Rust's expression falters into surprise and Marty thinks he's said the wrong thing somehow but then Rust lunges into a kiss that takes Marty's breath away. It's deep and scolding, Marty can barely keep up, chasing each curl of Rust's tongue and nip of his teeth. He sits up and runs his hands around Rust's waist, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. Rust's hands grab onto his before he can lift it making Marty freeze. Rust kisses his still mouth, softer now almost apologetic before sliding out of Marty's lap onto the floor.

"Shit, oh, I-" Marty pants, light-headed from the sudden rush of blood southward. Rust doesn't hesitant, unbuckling Marty's belt and opening his pants, yanking the down enough to pull Marty's rapidly hardening cock out. Marty whimpers at the touch, nails digging into the upholstery as he tries not to squirm. He watches Rust runs his fingers through his coarse pubes, amazed by the hungry look on his face. Unable to resist he reaches out and caressed Rust's cheek, Rust comes out of whatever trance he had been in and looks up at him, holding his gaze as he bends forward.

"Oh!" Marty barely has enough state of mind not to buck when Rust's lips slide around the head of his cock. Hot, wet heat engulfs him in an agonizingly slow slide and Marty has to close his eyes against the sordid image of Rust looking blissed out taking him in so he doesn't finish too soon. Marty runs his fingers through Rust's hair and holds on for dear life as Rust starts sucking him steadily, tongue dancing up the length of him then back down every time. There's no stopping the tide of heat that coils in his gut and licks up his spine setting Marty's senses alight.

He whines. "R-Rust, baby-" Tugging at Rust's roots in warning but all the man does is moan in response and grip his thighs tighter. The build gets too much and Marty tenses, arcing into Rust's mouth desperately as he tips into an orgasm so hard a tear slips out. Rust swallows it all and keeps tenderly mouthing at Marty's softening dick until Marty drags him off and into a messy kiss.

"Jesus Christ, I think you sucked my brains out," Marty wheezes clutching Rust's sweat-damp nape and pressing slow kisses on his lips.

"Missed the end of the show," Rust says, voice all rough and hot. The credits are rolling up the screen when Marty looks up and shrugs, grinning as Rust stands up in front of him.

"Hm, don't think I missed a thing." He touches Rust's thigh but before he can do anything more Rust is picking up his pack of smokes from the coffee table and shaking one out. "Don't you- what about you?" Rust taps the filter against his lip before putting it between them and steps back toward the open balcony door.

"Jus' gettin' you back for earlier," he answers with a shrug, turning on his heel and stepping into the shadow of the balcony. Marty is frozen for a moment then slumps back, running a hand through his thinning hair and searching the room for wherever that came from. Just like that the post-sex euphoria fades very quickly into a hollow guilt. With a deep calming breath he gets up, legs jellying for a second before following Rust into the cool night air.

His skin goosebumps in the sudden chill but it's a welcome relief from the sex stifled air in the living room. Rust doesn't acknowledge him but he shifts over from where he's leaning on the railing to make room for Marty to perch against it. It's a quiet neighborhood, Marty likes being able to leave the door open to let in fresh air without the accompanying sirens and rowdy night crowd. At this time of night there's only the occasional passing car, a dog barking in the distance, the soft puff of Rust inhaling another mouthful of smoke.

"You know this ain't-" The words stick and Marty chews his lip in frustration, he's never been good with words. "-You know you don't owe me anythin', right? I mean- shit, I mean..." He sighs and glaring at the night sky asking whomever's in charge for a little help. "I'm old as shit, man, and I ain't looking for some 'thing' where we- we fuck and don't talk and end up... resentin' each other. I'm too old and tired for that."

"Then what'd you want, Marty?" Rust asks quietly, a hard look on his shadowy face. Marty knows that tone, heard it sitting next to Rust on the office floor after coming their brains out, Rust ready to throw the baby right out with the bath water. They're making a habit of ruining an afterglow. It's not unfounded; Rust knows his history, was right there every morning Marty came in rough and late for work, smelling like sex with another woman. Of course Rust would think he's just another in a long line of affairs, he hadn't seen the last ten years of Marty's life; lonely and humbling and full of realizations that made his head spin.

"You," Marty answers earnestly, blushing at how damn soppy he sounds. "You and me. Thought about it for a long time, hated it at first. I realised how I felt and what I did to you because I... it made me feel sick. I ruined us, all of us, my family- and I didn't even know why for years. When I did, it was way past too late but then..."

"I came back," Rust says softly, he still won't look at Marty but he's stopped smoking; he's listening.

Marty breaths. "Yeah... all those old feelin's came rushin' back and I got mad. But it's you Rust, I can never stay mad at you- or I'm just always mad at you, I dunno, fact is I can't live without you." He hears Rust's breath catch, and the flicker of orange light as the cigarette slips from his fingers. Marty's heart is in his throat as he reaches out, laying his hand lightly on Rust's scarred forearm. "So it ain't about deserve and it ain't about owin' neither."

Rust doesn't say a word and Marty slumps in exhaustion, he hasn't talked about "feelings" that much since he was married, hadn't expected to dive into it tonight. He suddenly feels terribly vulnerable like he just spilled his guts at Rust's feet and said 'here, it's all yours, the entire messy lot of it'. He realises he's shaking a little, God, that's pathetic. As he pulls his hand away in shame, Rust's snakes out and catches him, fingers curling around his sweaty palm and thumb stroking his knuckles.

Shyly, like a half-feral animal approaching an outstretched hand, Rust edges closer until he can insinuate himself into Marty's side. He guides Marty's hand around his waist to his side. His bony hip digs into Marty's and his equally bony jaw tucks into his neck, Marty feels him sigh against his skin like he's just as exhausted. It feels like a fragile moment, Marty closes his eyes and they lean against each other.

Inevitably, Marty has to break the moment before he starts bawling like a baby. "Hope you're doc clears you for strenuous activity."

Rust snorts and lifts his head, giving Marty a dry look even though his eyes are a little misty which makes Marty's heart clench. "Got an appointment on Saturday, we'll see. Can't picture what kinda strenuous activity you'd be talkin' about, can barely walk up the stairs without gettin' red in the face."

Marty playfully bares his teeth and squeezes Rust, vigilant of his tender gut. "Asshole," he growls. "I'm talkin' about taking you out on a real date without you fallin' on your ass halfway through. I don't put out on the first date." They both know it's a dumb lie but Rust doesn't argue so Marty kisses Rust's temple lingering there for a long moment, feeling horrible tender and terribly lucky. "Let's go t'bed, Fran wants me in early."

Rust lets Marty lead him right to his own room and shut the door and light off behind them. In the dark, outlined by yellow streetlight, they undress side by side and settle into bed together. They lay next to each other on their backs until Marty can't resist rolling onto his side and seeking Rust's arm to latch onto.

"I don't know how to do this-" Rust murmurs.

"It's easy, you close your eyes and count the sheep."

"Marty..."

"Rust."

"I don't know how to do this but... I want to. For a long time I did," Rust confesses in a quiet tone. He shifts and faces Marty, hand somehow finding Marty's axe scar in the darkness. Marty takes his fingers and kisses them.

"I want to too, so... we'll figure it out. Okay?"

"Mhm," Rust hums and Marty realises he's half-asleep already. He smiles and shuffles in a little closer even though it's already getting too warm between them- he's gotta fix that air-con already. Or maybe Rust can it is their room after all. He falls asleep with Rust's hand in his and doesn't dream of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On-going series, will be continued with more fluff probably, cos i can't write angst for these guys they've been through too much already


End file.
